


Loudly Unspoken

by Mount_Seleya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Drug Use, Frottage, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Protective John, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 09:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7613398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John confronts Sherlock about the words he left unsaid on the tarmac. Set immediately after <i>TAB</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loudly Unspoken

_Firelight flickers across Watson's face, tinting his thinning, silver hair with its soft orange glow. Pulling his pipe from his mouth, he sinks back farther into his familiar armchair and offers Holmes a small, fond smile. "Am I to understand Sherlock Holmes truly wishes to trade a life of murder and intrigue for tending bees on a quiet country estate?"_  
  
_Holmes frowns at Watson. "Have I said something amusing?"_  
  
_"You, my dear Holmes, have never been anything but amusing in all the long years I've been privileged to know you."_  
  
Sherlock's eyes snap open at the sound of his name. He blinks a few times, the sudden assault of sunlight pounding into his drug-fogged brain like a hammer, then swallows dryly, heaving in a shaky breath through his nostrils.  
  
"Come on."  
  
Tilting his head up, he sees John peering down at him from the kerb, one hand holding open the car door expectantly.  
  
Sherlock's lower lip catches on his upper one as his mouth falls open. "Moriarty..." he rasps.  
  
"Is _dead_ ," John snaps. His tone is hard and conclusive, a boot stomping on pavement, a door slamming shut.  
  
_James Moriarty is a title, not a man,_ Sherlock wants to say. _Le roi est mort. Vive le roi._ But his tongue feels heavy and sluggish, his mind half in the now and half in a forgotten world of carriage chases and gaslight, and before he can coax his tongue to form a single syllable, John has seized him by the lapels of his coat and dragged him out of the car.  
  
He follows John into 221B, up the stairs, and into the sitting room of the flat they once shared.  
  
For a moment that seems to span an aeon, they stand facing each other, mere steps from the comfort of their chairs. John glares at Sherlock, chin tilted slightly downward and hands curled into fists at his sides, as if readying for a fight. The room seems to quiver and shrink under the sheer seething fury rolling off of him.  
  
"John?" Sherlock says tentatively.  
  
"You were being sent on a suicide mission."  
  
The words pierce into Sherlock's chest like a bullet. He presses his lips together to stifle a gasp. He wishes he were back in his Victorian dreamworld, where John was never more than moderately exasperated with him, where his heart didn't feel like it was going to explode from want, because his want was not only impossible, but illegal.  
  
"You knew you were never coming back," John continues. "The game was over for good. So you pumped yourself full of enough drugs to take down a bloody horse and said your goodbyes and got on your plane to nowhere."  
  
Tears well in Sherlock's eyes, fracturing John into a wavering, blurry smear. "That's—"  
  
"I've watched you die twice already," John says, cutting him off. "Why would you put me through it a third time?"  
  
"Because..." Sherlock falters. _Because I cannot live without you; because I love you more than life itself._ His throat closes up, barring the words he dare not speak from escaping, and he sucks in a sharp, stuttering breath.  
  
"Why?" John presses.  
  
"Because it was the only way to keep your family safe."  
  
John laughs, a bitter, mirthless sound. "You think they're safe now? Hmm? You think I can just settle down?"  
  
"That's what you want, isn't it?" Sherlock offers. "A family?" At any other time, his words would be petulant, steeped in a long-cultivated disdain for all things ordinary, but now he finds himself sounding tremulous and uncertain.  
  
"Ah, yes, I forgot you're the expert on what I want. That you always know best."  
  
"I don't know what you want me to say, John."  
  
"How about we start with what you meant to tell me on the tarmac?"  
  
Sherlock's brain takes a moment to register the quiet brutality of the question. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling a lone tear break free and slide down his right cheek, but some bone-deep instinct forces his eyes open again. Forces him to look at John, even though he feels made of glass, feels as though another word might make him shatter.  
  
"Surely, you must know," Sherlock whispers.  
  
" _Tell me_." John's voice is harsh, almost ragged, caught on the knife-edge between demanding and pleading.  
  
Sherlock swallows around the stone lodged in his throat. "John, I...I love you."  
  
At first, John's face betrays no reaction, and Sherlock wonders if he spoke the confession aloud. Then John compresses his mouth into a line, swallows, and gives a small, pragmatic nod, like a soldier accepting a fatal order.  
  
Sherlock's heart seizes. _Qualify_ , his mind screams. _You can still salvage something_. "John, I should clarify that, though undoubtedly of an amorous nature, my feelings are chaste, and I don't expect you to reciprocate."  
  
Shaking his head sharply, John makes a guttural sound, something between a hum and a growl. He surges toward Sherlock, his hands flying up, knitting hard in Sherlock's hair and pulling him down into a fierce kiss.  
  
It feels like baptism and death, like a revelation finally delivered after half a lifetime waiting in the desert, and Sherlock surrenders himself to it, drinks in John's anger and desperation and devotion as it crashes into him like a tidal wave. John's lips crush against Sherlock's. His tongue plunders Sherlock's mouth, flicking across teeth, palate, inner cheek. Sherlock releases a rumbling mewl, clutching at John's shoulders, his heart feeling full enough to crack open.  
  
John soon has Sherlock backed up against the sitting-room door. Sherlock instinctively widens his stance, bringing his pelvis level with John's, and John immediately nestles into the inviting lee of Sherlock's long legs. Their groins meet, and Sherlock feels the unmistakeable, glorious heat of an erection pressing into his own.  
  
Hands skating down John's back, Sherlock grasps John's backside, encouraging him to start a rhythmic grind. John growls, low and feral, his teeth latching onto the tender skin exposed by the open collar of Sherlock's shirt.  
  
They carry on for untold minutes, until Sherlock jerks away, only to spin John around and push him against the door. Falling to his knees, he raises his hands, fumbles open the button above the zip of John's jeans.  
  
A hand locks in Sherlock's hair, yanking his head back, so that he's forced to meet John's gaze. Electricity sparks down his spine, each strained follicle relaying the pure, unparalleled bliss of John's control straight to his bollocks.  
  
"I don't know if this is you or the sodding coke," John tells him.  
  
"You're a doctor," Sherlock retorts. "You ought to know prolonged cocaine use tends to adversely impact the libido. I'm past the point of being overwhelmed by indiscriminate urges any time I get a bit high."  
  
" _A bit?_ " John scoffs.  
  
"I want to do this," Sherlock intones, carefully enunciating the words in a deep, seductive purr. Looking up at John through his eyelashes, he slowly traces the pad of his thumb along the solid, impressive outline of John's erection. "I've wanted to do this since the moment I first laid eyes on you. Let me give this to you, John. _Please_."  
  
"No," John replies, a little breathlessly. "It wouldn't be right."  
  
"I want this, John, and so do you."  
  
John swipes his tongue across his lower lip. Sherlock can see the dark intensity burning in John's eyes, can feel John's hand trembling minutely as it grips his hair, and knows John is wrangling against his own desire.  
  
"God, Sherlock," John says, raw and reverent. "I do want you. I want you more than anything. But I don't want this: you, coked out of your brilliant mind, giving me the kind of furtive nosh I could get in an alley." Cupping the back of Sherlock's head, he cards his fingers through Sherlock's riot of curls, tenderly massages his scalp. "I want something more, something _better_ , because we both deserve it after all we've been through, love."  
  
_Love_.  
  
Warmth floods Sherlock's heart at the endearment, more potent than any drug in his veins, than the lust in his flesh. He screws his eyes shut, overcome, and before he can help it, there are tears spilling down his cheeks.  
  
"Oh, Sherlock." John falls to his knees and takes Sherlock in his arms. "It's okay. I've got you."  
  
Sherlock buries his face in the crook of John's shoulder. It should be degrading, being this vulnerable, but instead it feels oddly liberating, like all the walls he's spent years building around the truth are finally coming down.  
  
"I thought I was never going to see you again," Sherlock murmurs. "I thought I would die without you knowing."  
  
"I'm here now," John assures him. "I'm never letting you go again, Sherlock. Swear to God."  
  
"What about Mary?" It hurts Sherlock to ask, but he has to know.  
  
John draws in a deep breath, then exhales slowly, unsettling a stray wisp of hair caught in the shell of Sherlock's ear. "I was ready to be done with her that night at Baker Street. Still am. But I've got the baby to consider."  
  
"And I told you to trust her," Sherlock adds quietly.  
  
"Yeah, I remember. You were going into cardiac arrest. _Again_. Because my wife put a fucking bullet in your chest. Missed your heart by centimetres. Maybe you're mad enough to forgive that. But I can't. I _won't_."  
  
"John—"  
  
"Now's not the time to discuss this, love." John's tone is gentle but firm. "Let's get you to bed. You need rest."  
  
"It's barely noon," Sherlock objects.  
  
"You've put far too much shit in your system, Sherlock, and your liver is still healing. Up you get."  
  
Sherlock allows John to pull him to his feet and lead him through the kitchen, down the hall, and into his bedroom. Shucking his long black overcoat, he tosses it onto the chair beside the wardrobe, then toes off his shoes. His eyes briefly meet John's, and he trudges over to the bed, dropping onto it with a sigh and rolling onto his left side.  
  
A moment later, the mattress dips and creaks, and a warm, human presence cozies up behind him.  
  
"Okay?" John asks, tentatively placing a hand on Sherlock's elbow.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock answers.  
  
With that, John slips his hand between Sherlock's elbow and flank, slinging one strong arm around Sherlock's waist. His hand splays open over the left breast pocket of Sherlock's suit jacket and guides him back against his chest. Sherlock melts into the embrace, his eyes fluttering shut, a profound sense of safety and peace washing through him. He curls a hand around John's forearm, revelling in the heat radiating through the thick, scratchy wool of his jumper.  
  
John nuzzles into his neck, a paradox of impossibility and inevitability, breathes, "I love you so damn much."  
  
"I love you," Sherlock whispers back. No longer are those three words an heretical mantra secretly chanted in the ascetic temple of his mind; they are an undeniable truth, written in his blood and sinew, in the very stuff of his soul.  
  
John lightly kisses Sherlock's pulse point. "Now get some sleep, you berk."  
  
Sherlock laughs, content in the knowledge that, for the first time in his life, his future lays behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my hard drive for several months. I figured I better post it before season four drops.


End file.
